Navigational Error
by the-nerd-word
Summary: When infection spreads aboard the Sleipnir, the Starfighter crew struggles to survive in an onslaught of violence, loss and Alliance betrayal. A crossover between Starfighter and Dead Space.
1. Chapter 1

Notes:

I warned a few of you that this was coming. I'm a geek for horror games; how could I resist a crossover between Starfighter and Deadspace? I imagine this will be rather lengthy, but I wanted to at least give you guys an introduction in time for Christmas Eve. On a random side note, I do not cuss irl, so writing dialogue for Cain is sometimes a stretch for me, heh. If graphic violence bothers you, please move on. Otherwise, let me know if you like the story!

Starfighter belongs to HamletMachine, and Dead Space belongs to EA Games.

* * *

It had started as a virus.

A handful of the crew had reported to medical with headaches and fatigue, with restless sleep plagued by nightmares and waking hours haunted by hallucinations.

Medical blamed it on stress. After all, with the _Sleipnir_ cruising through Colteron-infested space, some men were bound to bend under pressure.

Stay hydrated. Keep eating. Get some sleep. Take pills when you can't.

Frayed nerves weren't limited to this particular craft, either. When the _Sleipnir_ had rendezvoused with _Munera _a week ago for an unexpected supply exchange and mechanical assessment, one of her officers had admitted that several of the crew members were experiencing similar symptoms, that one of the fighters had even slit his own wrists in the mess hall with a butter knife.

War was hard, they agreed. Not everybody was cut out for it.

Shame, that.

* * *

Abel woke up with a shout, eyes wide and breath shaky as he sat up and clutched the bed sheets with white knuckles. He visibly jumped when Cain touched his shoulder.

"Chill, princess," Cain chided him, but it was only half-hearted. "Just a dream. Go back to sleep."

Abel continued to sit there, though, only moving to rub the beads of sweat from his forehead.

Cain watched him warily but didn't say anything else, rolling one hand as he wished his cigarettes weren't all the way across the room.

Abel drew his knees to his bare chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. "It was so…" He shook his head and drew another shaky breath. "What a weird nightmare."

Cain frowned. "Not you too. I'm sick of hearing this shit from everyone. Stop worrying about it and go to bed. And try not to wake me up again."

Abel sighed, wishing for a bit of sympathy but well aware that Cain was Cain. Nodding, he wiggled his toes in the cold bedroom air and pulled the blanket back from where he had kicked it down in his sleep. He rolled onto his side and shut his eyes, willing himself to sleep. But his mind kept returning to his nightmare, to strange red symbols that stuck like hot brands in his mind, uniform in their crude, alien lines. Abel knew they were significant, if not why, the same way he knew that part of his dream lay just out of his memory's reach; fuzzy when it should have been strong, striking, _there_.

"Cain?" he asked suddenly, licking his lips and glancing over his shoulder at the man beside him. "Does the word 'convergence' mean anything to you?"

In the dark, Abel couldn't make out the way Cain's eyes widened momentarily, or the way his face paled in anxious recognition.

"No," Cain lied. "Does the word 'sleep' mean anything to you?"

Abel gave a guilty, one-armed shrug. "Sorry."

"Since we're both awake," Cain began with an eye roll, moving to straddled Abel, "and since I don't foresee you leaving me in fucking peace anytime soon, might as well make the most of it." He ran his hands across Abel's chest and planted heavy kisses along his throat, nipping when it suited him.

Abel leaned into those feelings, closing his eyes when Cain began to suck on the hollow of his throat. His thoughts still lingered on the markings – the warning? – he had seen in his nightmares, but as touches turned to caresses and sighs turned to moans, he let himself fall into the physical bliss that Cain was offering. It was only a dream, after all.

And Cain, who growled and kneaded and thrust with passion and familiarity, told himself that there was nothing to worry about; that the frantic whisper of _convergence_ hadn't been warring with his own dreams; that the times he had woken up to crashing waves of adrenaline after running for his life, always running, seeking, fleeing, never escaping those snapping, blade-like tendons and flayed limbs, slipping on blood, smelling the sharp clot of death, choking on the stench of swollen bodies and maimed friends, choking until you realized that oxygen was running out, that the breathing on your neck only foreshadowed teeth, jaws, elongated fangs; ripping, clawing, shredding, shrieking-

Cain told himself it couldn't be real.

Because how could it?

It was just stress.

Everything was fine.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes:

This took forever and it's still short /sobs  
For those of you who want to get a better idea about the Dead Space universe but don't want to brave the games, Netflix has an instant streaming of Dead Space: Downfall; it's not super accurate on all accounts, but it's entertaining.

* * *

When Cain awoke the next morning, he held his breath against the threat of lingering dreams. With each blink, he swore some flash of color remained, some glimpse of silhouettes and carnage. He shook his head to dispel the color, turning his head to peer at Abel. His eyes roamed the curves of his navigator's face, looking for signs of restlessness. But Abel's expression was relaxed, skin almost ghost white in the dim room.

Cain watched the way his chest rose and fell in a deep and steady rhythm, and not for the first time he took some small comfort in having Abel beside him.

Not that he'd ever admit it, of course.

Cain dressed quietly, taking extra time to brush his teeth and splash water on his face; in front of the mirror, he forced himself to look up, to catch and hold his own eyes. A shadow clung somewhere in their depths, and blinking did nothing to relieve the heaviness he felt. And then there were the flashes, the- "Nothing," he said quietly to the glass. Nothing at all.

Cain spared a last look for Abel before leaving for morning training. The halls were quieter than usual as he exited the barracks and entered the main levels of the ship. He passed more than one pair of fighter-navigator teams speaking in hushed tones. Several rubbed their temples, all looked tired. This whole thing was turning out to be one helluva clusterfuck. It wasn't enough having to deal with the stress of a suicide mission in Colteron space; now they had some virus spooking morale and health alike.

If it even was a virus, Cain thought wryly.

A small group of navigators turned the corner in front of Cain, their hurried steps matching their anxious expressions. Each of them wore the customary white of their positions, but their uniforms were out of order, not quite as perfect as usual. They looked harried, Cain thought.

Before the group reached the end of the hall, Lieutenant Keeler stepped out from a nearby lift and signaled them over. "Which way?" he asked, shoulders back and tight. One of the navigators pointed in the direction from which the navigators had traveled. "Over there, sir!"

Before Keeler could reply, screaming suddenly sounded from around the corner. The lieutenant started and dropped all pretenses of formal engagement; he took off running toward the noise, his loose braid slipping like a white streamer in his wake.

Cain watched him go, feeling a wave of unease that seemed to keep growing as the day went on. He gave the remaining navigators a confused scowl. "What the fuck?" he demanded, letting that speak for itself as the wailing down the hall continued.

The shortest of the three, a shy looking man with a notebook held to his chest, gave a diminutive shrug. "A navigator, Epiales… He lost it."

"Lost it?" Cain asked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The shorter man gave another shrug and looked away, wincing when the cries down the hall grew louder.

Cain stared at the corner, letting wariness war with curiosity. He took a step toward the noise, and red flashed briefly in his vision. Shaking it off, he chided himself for being a coward and rounded the turn, letting his feet take him where instinct warned him against.

The screaming spilled from the mouth of a single navigator, a thick-shouldered blonde who thrashed and howled as two medics and a startled fighter attempted to restrain him. Blood dribbled from the nose of one of the medics, staining crisp white uniforms with ugly smears of red in the struggle. The navigator's mouth also bled, lower lip split, and his teeth continued to gnaw at the swollen flesh when he paused to breathe between shouts.

"Make it stop! Make it stop!" he yelled, hands busy with reaching for his head and fighting off the men trying to restrain him. His nails dug shallow grooves into his scalp, nails catching on hair and skin. "Can't you hear it? It's calling- God, it's here! Help me, help me…"

Keeler was kneeling in front of him, trying to sound calm but stern. "Epiales, listen to me. You're going to be okay. Calm down, navigator, that's an order. You need to tell us what's wrong."

Epiales looked at Keeler with stricken eyes. "Don't you hear? It's in my head. It's everywhere."

"Epiales, stop. Just-" Keeler abruptly looked at one of the medics, eyes flashing with frustration. "He needs to be sedated. iNow/i."

"No," Epiales suddenly whispered, going limp. Keeler stared at him in surprise, but the navigator's gaze bore into the air above Keeler's shoulder. "There's no time. No time, little brother."

Keeler snapped his fingers in front of Epiales' face. "No time for what? Epiales? What brother?"

"So much blood," the navigator whispered, starting to cry. "So much. Oh my God, I hear it. We're meat. We're meat," he sobbed.

As backup medics arrived with sedatives, Keeler stepped back, expression carefully blank but body tense. He glanced over and met Cain's eyes as the rush of personnel carried on around them, a wall of non-forthcoming opinion in shades of gray and pale blonde.

Cain stared back, trying to ignore the way his heart jumped when the crazed navigator began thrashing again. After a moment, unable to find answers in Keeler's gaze, he turned on his heel and headed back. Creepy as fuck or not, Encke wouldn't take this as an excuse for tardiness.

Besides, he needed to talk to Deimos.


	3. Chapter 3

Abel ran.

Somewhere, in the blur and haze of his mind, he knew he dreamt. But greater than this knowledge was the fear, the fright, the overwhelming certainty that he was being chased by a monster birthed by maliciousness and time.

His steps took him to the fighter's bay on the _Sleipnir_, a place he was not entirely familiar with. Tables were overturned, and scraps of fighters' suits were scattered across the floor, but the area was otherwise deserted.

He hurried to the opposite door, his breath heavy in his chest. As he reached for the keypad, the wall began to hiss and drip; a red-tinged growth steadily crept across the door, tendrils like roots, its mass swelling and sprawling as it spread like some man-sized tumor, splitting open at bulging ends to dribble pus onto the floor.

Abel jerked his hand away in horror, quickly backing up. He covered his mouth as the smell of fresh decay permeated the room. The mass over the door continued to bubble, and suddenly Abel could make out the hollow impression of eyes between layers of slick rot.

With a startled yelp, he turned to run, but the previously deserted bay was covered in fresh smears of blood. Red adorned walls, ceiling, and floor, and Abel thought he could make out some sort of uniformity in the streaks, some hint of communication. But before he could focus on any of it, the floor heaved, matching his breaths with its own, until all at once it disappeared, and he was falling. Falling and falling, the stars rising up to greet him, the iciness of space filling his lungs, unintelligent but unforgiving, until he felt his mind slipping and there was nothing else to feel.

Abel awoke with a visible start, hands flying to his chest as he took quick, uneven breaths. The sheets were damp with sweat and tangled around him.

"Just a nightmare," he whispered thickly, mouth dry and bitter. "That's it."

To the left of the bed, his tablet flashed with a new message, pulsing green every few seconds. He reached over and shakily opened the message, eyes scanning without really seeing before he shook his head and read it again.

All navigators were to report to medical for routine check-ups due to mission stress levels. Codenames A through C were scheduled for 0800 hours; codenames D through F were scheduled…

Abel scanned the rest of the message for anything important before glancing at the clock. 0724 hours, which meant he had time for a quick shower and a bite to eat in the mess if he hurried.

He took a few settling breaths before kicking the covers to the end of the bed. There was no time to focus on dreams, he reminded himself, not when they were in Colteron space, not when he had so much important work to do re-configuring the engine types. He needed to focus, otherwise he'd be letting his comrades down, and he'd be putting Cain and himself in danger. And that was that.

Newly motivated, Abel rinsed off -sparing a few minutes to shave and mentally sigh over Cain's impressive assortment of hair care products occupying most of the bathroom counter- and changed into his standard uniform. With one last look at their room, he turned off the light and left.

It was hard not to notice how unusually quiet the halls were. More than once, he met the gaze of some fighters, almost hoping one of them would curl a lip or toss a crude word, but even they seemed somewhat subdued.

It was like everybody knew something was wrong, but nobody could pinpoint the fault, so tensions ran high and comfort came in numbers. It was like a pack mentality, Abel realized.

When a familiar voiced called from behind, he felt a twinge of relief and wondered at that.

"Abel! Hey, hold the lift!" Ethos piped, hurrying to step inside. "Man, am I glad to see you. This place is giving me the heebs this morning, you know? Everyone's all wound up."

Abel nodded knowingly. "I wish I could have walked with Cain, to be honest. What floor?"

"Oh. Five," Ethos said, watching as Abel set the lift. "I get what you mean, though. I'd have walked with Praxis for the company and reassurance but," he shrugged guiltily, "you know."

"Still no luck with him?" Abel asked.

"No. But I'm not going to give up. I just, you know, might end up driving him crazy from all of my effort."

The lift came to a stop as Abel smiled and shook his head. "It'll all work out. Give it time."

Ethos ran a hand through his unruly hair as he stepped into the hall. "Thanks. Anyway, I'll see you later. I've been assigned to cover for Epiales."

"Wait," Abel stopped him, frowning with concern. "What's wrong with Epiales? Is he sick too?"

Ethos' eyes widened a fraction. "You didn't hear?"

Abel shook his head, about to ask for the details, but a pair of fighters turned the corner and entered the lift. Quickly glancing at the time on his tablet, Abel stepped into the hall and joined Ethos as he walked to the lab. "Is he okay?" he asked with concern.

"Um, I don't think so, not really. I'm sorry. He sort of just... Well, I heard from Bazin that he started muttering all these weird things about letters and markers or something. Apparently he even got really aggressive with his fighter- you know, that big guy with the scar across his shoulder? The really tall one?"

Abel nodded, wanting Ethos to go on.

"Anyway, his fighter tried to calm him down in the hall right outside the third floor training room, and he just lost it. Started screaming and hurting himself with his pen." Ethos shuddered, shaking his head briefly and unconsciously quickening his steps. "I can't imagine... They said it got pretty bad before Lieutenant Keeler and the medics stepped in."

"That's horrible," Abel breathed. "Do they know what caused, I mean…"

Ethos rolled his eyes. "Stress, like that's news."

Neither of them looks convinced, their expressions turning grim.

"What was he working on?" Abel finally asked.

"Eh. Nothing different from what we all have. He had an index on parts from when we converged with the _Munera_ last week, and a report on outdated engine schematics."

"What?" Abel asked sharply, stopping abruptly. "What did you say?"

"Don't worry, we're not using them; they'll probably be trashed when-"

"No, no," Abel interrupted, unease threading fingers across his nerves. "Converged. You said 'converged'. With the _Munera_."

"Uh, yeah." Ethos said with an odd look. "It's just the word that came to mind. Weird, but it's been in my head all day. Why? Did I use it wrong?"

"No, it's not that, it's-" Abel shook his head. "I don't know," he said at last, wondering at his own nervousness. "Don't worry about it."

Ethos titled his head. "After your check-in with medical, you might want to get some rest. Speaking of which, aren't you supposed to be there soon?"

Abel ran a hand over his tablet and winced at the glowing 0801. "Shoot! I'm late. There goes breakfast." He started to turn when Ethos grabbed his sleeve.

"Wait," the younger man said, pulling an apple from his jacket pocket. "Here. Better than nothing."

"Thanks!" Abel took the fruit and waved with his free hand before jogging back toward the lift. If medical was going in alphabetical order, his name was going to be the first on their list. Which meant he had some angry nurses to look forward to.

* * *

When Abel opened the door to medical, though, the sign-in room was empty. Fresh coffee steamed from a pot in the corner, and generic music played overhead, but the usual flurry of medics was absent. Besides personnel, there should've been about ten other navigators too. He was late, but only by a few minutes. Where was everyone else?

With a confused little frown, he peered over the counter and noticed a random shuffling of paperwork on the floor. "Hello?" he called, then paused to listen. "Anyone?"

There was a muffled cry from the next room, followed by silence. Abel put his tablet and apple on the counter and walked to the door, hesitating. He knocked once, and the door was cold under his knuckles. "Hello?"

When he heard nothing else, he tentatively hit the open button. At the end of the hall, where the floor formed a T, Abel could make out strange gouges in the wall. They were jagged but parallel, each of them about a foot long. He stared at the scratches with a sense of unplaced dread, feeling his chest pull each breath heavier than before. He walked forward, each step slow but steady, aiming his way to the end of the hall, recognizing those gouges even though he told himself that he couldn't, because dreams were dreams and that was all.

A moan suddenly broke the silence, and Abel ran the last few feet. In the hallway to the right, a navigator sat against the wall, face bloodied and left arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Scraps of flesh hung from his shoulders and upper chest, as though something had done its best to gnaw through him. "Oh God," Abel whispered, crouching in front of the navigator, uselessly moving his hands as he tried to recall his studies in first aid, as if the basics covered anything like this. "Aureus, what happened?" he asked frantically, quietly, applying pressure to the deepest of the gashes in the navigator's shoulder.

"Abel," he whispered, breathing hard. "Monsters. From the morgue. Monsters."

"What do you- Like, animals? Colterons?"

Aureus shook his head, wincing when the effort cost him. He finally lifted his hand to point further down the hall; Abel followed his gaze to the smears of blood lining the floor, smears that looked suspiciously like drag marks. As he stared, a growl sounded from another room, a guttural, wet-sounding noise that cut through the air.

"Run," Aureus gasped, breaths hitching, becoming shorter.

"Stay with me!" Abel quietly commanded, lightly patting Aureus' face. "I'm going to get help. Aureus!"

The growling continued, followed by a bizarre clicking noise, like blades snapping together, and the navigator sagged.

Abel felt his heart lurch. He backed away, unable to tear his gaze from the navigator's ripped body, when the lights suddenly flickered. Feeling fear like energy, Abel turned to run when he saw it, a large figure at the end of the opposite hall, an angry shape hosting inhuman limbs and large, scythe-like blades at the ends of its wrist, flesh peeled back from its mouth, red tongue protruding from broken incisors. Medical clothes hung from its disjointed body, streaming like ribbons as it took a lurching step forward.

Abel kept still, heart raging in his chest, eyes darting as he tried to gauge the distance to the exit. The monster stilled, quivering in place, and as Abel looking into its sunken eyes, he knew he saw eagerness.

The monster paused, waiting for its prey to start the game of chase.

Abel ran.


End file.
